


Dress Ye Never So Fair

by Quillori



Category: English and Scottish Popular Ballads - Francis James Child
Genre: Child Ballad 44, The Twa Magicians - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:05:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weel may ye dress ye, lady fair,<br/>Into your robes o red;<br/>Before the morn at this same time,<br/>I'll gain your maidenhead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress Ye Never So Fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VegaOfTheLyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VegaOfTheLyre/gifts).



My love, I will snare you the fat quail in the thicket, shoot down for you wild geese on the wing. No deer is too fleet for my hounds to tear, no trout so cunning to escape my hands. The plump little quail have thin, fine bones; the fallen deer will bleed red blood, and you and I together, love, shall make a feast.

_O bide, lady, bide_

My love, I will make music for your delight. The reeds by the lake grow thick, grow thick, and how should I find one reed among many? But my eye sees true, love, my eye sees all, and I shall break the sweetest reed to pipe. Oh! Every note shall die upon the air as sweet and pure as any from a flute of bone.

_And aye he bade her bide_

My love, I will search you out howsoever you are hidden. Though the road lies far and hard the way, there is no distant corner where I would not find you out. I have a fine horse, love, a mare untiring and fast; though I whip her till she bleeds, though I ride her till she falls, I will have my way.

_O bide, lady, bide_

My love, the wanton grey hares run on the mountainside. Shall I set my dogs, love, shall I prime my gun, and bring them back all cold and stiff? All around the green trees stand, thick set about with briars and thorns; safe in their nests the little birds sit by two and two. My axe is sharp, love, and my arms are strong: for you there is no path I cannot clear.

_And aye he bade her bide_

My love, the church is dark and quiet. All honoured on the altar the holy icon stands; secluded in the corner the confession box awaits.  The majesty and power of God may guard the little church, haven and shelter of all who fly, yet he who wishes may enter free, to touch and kiss that sacred form. Oh love, have you secrets guarded close? There may you kneel, safe in the solitary night, and whisper to the silence what none but me shall hear, and share the things that none but me shall ever know.

_O bide, lady, bide_

My love, while yet you live, no sickness will choke your breath for which I am not apothecary. And when you are dead, love, and laid to grave, the cold clay clod will embrace your corpse and take you in.

_And aye he bade her bide_

My love, there is no lamb that does not fear the wolf, no otter that does not catch its fish. The hawk stoops on the high air; the field mouse cries out for the weasel's sharp teeth. Each to each is the way of things, nor is there any other course. Give you your love, love, how you may, there is no escape from me.

_And still he bade her bide_


End file.
